


I have all night

by LukasV



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Begging, Other, Power Play, Punishment, Spanking, gender neutral reader, gn! Reader - Freeform, no actual smut, spanking with a belt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukasV/pseuds/LukasV
Summary: Dutch is away for a few days, leaving Hosea in charge of camp. You find yourself in a fight again, and Hosea is less than pleased at your lack of respect.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Reader
Kudos: 52





	I have all night

**Author's Note:**

> Yup! I'm back again with another Hosea spanking fic because I am a man with literally ZERO shame.

It’s _awful._

Embarrassing, uncomfortable and downright degrading. No matter how many times you found yourself in this position, it never got any easier.

He’s sat no more than a few metres away, slouched casually in his chair, a long leg propped over the other with a book in hand. His gaze occasionally shifts from the page towards you, but you can’t bare to meet it, so you look to the floor, the wall at your back and your hands pushed to it, fiddling mindlessly with the flakes of cracking paint.

It was _your_ fault, and you knew as much. But you’d be damned if you were going to admit it, let alone _ask_ what he wanted you to ask. You were angry, but more so with yourself for being foolish enough to play this game again.

He speaks, finally.

“Do you know why I asked you here?”

You swallow, thick, dislodging another flake of paint with your fingernails behind you before finally speaking up yourself, the words mumbled and barely audible despite the relatively small room “…Because I was fighting in camp”

“Speak _properly_ now dear, I can barely hear you”

_And it’s always like this._

“Because I was fighting in camp sir”

“And? when I asked you to stop, what did you call me?”

Your jaw tightens, eyes roaming the same three floorboards they had been for the past half an hour. “I… I called you a grumpy old bastard sir”

He nods slowly, position unchanging, and it’s almost irritating how long you’ve he’s kept you here now. You know what he’s waiting for, but you wont give him it. Dutch often played the same waiting game, but his impatience was his own worst enemy, and with the right amount of good behaviour and teasing you could get yourself out of it easily. But Hosea wasn’t Dutch.

“Are you really gonna keep me stood here all _damn_ night?” you huff, eyes finally meeting him, the words bold.

And then there’s that _face,_ those silver eyebrows raised in a mixture of disappointment and disbelief at your attitude, mouth pressed to a thin line. You recognised the look, knew he was deliberating, deciding something quietly with himself.

“That’s up to _you_ dear” he finally responds, eyes back on the book in his hands “I have a fine novel, a light to read by and the _full night_ if need be… it’s _your_ choice”

“ _Dutch_ never cares about fighting in camp!” you blurt out foolishly.

“Well Dutch is Dutch and _I’_ _m_ me, and when Dutch is away from camp _my_ word goes” he snaps quickly, not missing a beat.

“… I _ain’t_ saying it” you cross your arms and lean back against the wall, glaring towards the window where the music and laughter of the gang filtered through from outside.

“Then allow me to give you some initiative” he comments calmly “I’m currently on page… _86_ of my book, each page I read without you speaking up is another strike”

“ _But-”_

“Shall I make it every paragraph?” and the stern eyes are on you once more.

You draw your bottom lip into your mouth, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat that just wouldn’t budge.

“I thought not” he continues, eyes flitting back and forth across the page again.

And from then on, seconds may as well have been _hours_ , the minutes _years_. Your teeth gnaw mindlessly at the inside of your mouth. You can’t place quite how long this little stand-off has been going, but the deep orange of late dusk that once cast a line on the floor has since been replaced by the white of the moon, the chorus of swamp insects stirring up from the trees.

It’s almost _terrifying_ the composure he exudes, only moving occasionally to rub a hand against his chin or shift his weight. Every now and then, he brings a slim finger to his tongue, wetting the pad and flicking to the next page.

The sound is quiet, but to you it’s booming. Each brush and rustle of paper like torture. You hadn’t been counting how many you had heard, but you knew he sure as hell had.

He talks again and you jump at the noise, thinking for a moment he may well have forgotten you were even there. But oh no, of course not.

“That's been thirty two pages now dear, you wanna tell me anything?"

You know he’s looking at you, but you can’t bare to do the same. You’re willing yourself to maintain some level of stoicism, but it’s waning fast.

He waits a good few seconds longer, before returning to the book, making a slow and audible spectacle of turning to the next page “Chapter _eight_ ” he mumbles to himself with a sigh, but you know it wasn’t for his own ears.

You lean back against the wall, desperate to be anywhere else. The swamps, the city, hell even in the company of _Uncle._ It’s _exhausting_ , emotionally and physically, and it starts to make sense now just what could have drawn an such an impulsive and ruthless man as Dutch Van Der Linde to Hosea’s side all those years ago.

You think back to your earlier fight. Wishing like hell you’d just backed down, wishing when Hosea had asked you’d just done as he said then and there. You were certain he hadn’t cared at the time, he’d said nothing more to you for _hours._ But alas, he’d caught you on your way back to your room and you hadn’t left his own since.

The words rise in your throat a few times, cutting of as they reach your lips, fingers fiddling wildly behind your back until you’re finally able to stumble them out meekly.

“I’m… I’m sorry”

He looks up, but the book doesn’t close, thumb pressing to the page you presume to mark where he had left off. There is the tiniest of smirks, though of satisfaction or pride you couldn’t tell, for it dissipated just as quickly as it came leaving you wondering if it had ever actually been there in the first place.

“I beg your pardon? you’re mumbling again”

“I’m sorry _sir_ ”

“Sorry for what _exactly_ dear?

You take a deep breath, not enjoying this at all. You _would_ call it a game, but hesitate, as for Hosea this is no laughing matter. You lick your lips, the flesh dry with the warmth of the small room.

“I’m sorry for fighting… and for talking back to you sir”

And your waiting now for the soft thud of the book, that expression to soften to something more comfortable, a gentle wave of his arm as he dismisses you.

But there is none, only another question.

“And? There’s another part, ain’t there?” his eyebrows are up again “come on… _you_ know what comes next”

You _did_ know what came next, but had never expected him to _still_ intend to go through with it. Your body begins to give in, mind finally giving up with the intensity of it all. Your legs burned with the exhaustion of standing, feet having been still for so long you could almost feel the grain of the wooden floor below forever printed into them. Your stomach churned, working away at nothing sending acid up your throat in the search for a meal that had never come.

You felt a _fool_ , because you most certainly were to have been so careless. To have thought yourself above respect and manners once again.

And the only answer you can give to his prompt is a sharp breath followed by the crack of a sob. The tears well in your eyes and you try _so_ hard to hold them in, to the point they ache, but it’s no use, wet slipping down your cheeks and beading at your chin before falling.

He talks again, and at first you think it’s a rare case of mercy, but your hopes are dashed just as soon.

“Now-now...” he orders “none of that”. You clench your fists, anything to have the tears stop but they refuse.

“’Please will you’… _there_ , I’ve even started it off for you” his voice just the tiniest bit softer.

You clench your teeth, as if to trap the words from ever coming out. The eyes watching you are calm, but unwavering, relentless in their intensity. Not unlike the way an owl would wait patiently for a mouse to flee the spot it had been pinned to.

“P-please will you...” you mentally kick yourself, psyching yourself up for a second try, the words coming out quick but firm like the tugging of a splinter.

“ _Please_ will you spank me Mr Matthews _sir”_

And just like that, the book closes, discarded onto the table at his side. The leg that had been propped over the other lifts and finds it’s place on the ground again, and the soft smile on his face is definitely present now, though you still blink once to make sure.

“ _There_ … that wasn’t so hard now was it?” he opens his legs just a touch, thin fingers summoning you towards him “come on then, you know what to do now”

You obey silently, crossing the short distance to lower yourself over his knee, gripping tight to the fabric of his pants to steady yourself.

He makes quick work of your belt, slim fingers undoing it with ease before sliding your pants down to just above your knees. You whimper slightly, though only at the sensation of fresh air on the skin, a shiver of goosebumps quickly dappling it.

And there’s no teasing like there is with Dutch, no roaming hand, no smug comments, no nonsense.

The first slap comes harsh, echoing around the room. You jolt with a small yelp, but he allows as much, at least for the beginning. There is a pause, and then another, no harsher or softer than the first, but striking the exact same spot with precision. You push forward into him, knuckles white where they clung to the material, teeth gritted to silence any further sounds.

It continues for a minute or so, a steady beat of palm on skin. And you find a rhythm, bracing when needed and relaxing in-between until the next hit doesn’t come. Though you don’t dare get up until he says so.

“ _There,_ you’re doing so _well_ for me dear, I’m so proud of you”

‘You’re _Doing_ so well’ not ‘You’ve _done_ so well’. He wasn’t finished, though you couldn’t imagine what else there was, he had seemed so ready to finish up. You didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

“Now...” he purrs, a hand rubbing soothingly across the red hot skin of your behind “If you had chosen to do things properly, I would have sent you on your way now, but unfortunately you decided to drag things out, didn’t you dear?”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion before rising high again in horrid realisation.

_The pages. The damn pages._

“How many pages of my book did I read dear?” He remembered, but wants _you_ to say.

“Th-Thirty two sir”

“Good, so you _were_ paying attention” you hadn’t even realised it had been a test, and your mind wondered just what would have happened had you answered with any number _but_ that one.

You feel a movement on your pants again, but they aren’t being pulled up, rather tugged sharply with the clink of metal, and before you realise what’s happening your belt is loose in his hand. You crane your head back and catch a glimpse of it folded to a loop in his grip, but just as quickly he’s pushing you away again.

“head _down_ dear”

And slowly, it starts to click into the place. The belt, the pages, the number. Your eyes blow wide at the thought, instantly shuffling forward in his lap only to be held in place.

“Please sir… _please_ not with that, please just use your hand _please!”_ you beg, the tears coming back now, though they are pointless “please sir… that _hurts_ so much, please just let me go I promise I won’t do it again!”

he tuts, the hand with the belt coming to your head to brush a few stray locks behind your ear “Now dear, you _know_ this doesn’t work like that, if I let you off now you’ll come to expect it every time”

It was a more than valid point, and as the grip that held you in place doesn’t falter you surrender once again, falling limp over his lap. This was happening. There was no getting out of it. Not with _him._

“I’d like you to _count_ for me now, nice and loud, or I’ll start over from number one again, is that clear?”

“ _Yes_ sir”

“Very good”

The tension is unbearable, our own heartbeat pounding in your ears. And then comes the first strike. And it’s _nothing_ like a palm, nothing at _all_ like it.

You cry out, loud, fingers scrabbling wildly for something to grip onto finding only the intricate leather of his boot. To cling to it for dear life, instinctively arching away from the contact for escape but finding none.

You hear him hum above you, less than pleased and you almost forget the words, quickly blurting them out to save yourself.

“One!”

another pause, and then another crack of leather on skin. Another shout, though muffled this time by your teeth digging deep in your bottom lip, hard enough to leave an impression.

“Two!”

You’re focused entirely on the words. If you slip up, this starts again, and you _knew_ damn well he wasn’t joking about that.

You can’t place how long it went on, but it’s _agony._ Each strike comes steady and firm, not once out of beat, not hitting again until you shout the number. The toes of your boots scrape along the wood, seeking helplessly for purchase to brace against. From the window, comes the sound of singing, a few members of the gang merry on the delights of fine booze. You knew at least a few people would be in the house by this time, but they all knew the deal. When Hosea’s door was shut, his neckerchief looped on the handle, he was not to be disturbed.

“Thirty two!” you cry, somehow finding the effort to make it unmistakably clear lest you start from one again.

Your throat is hoarse, lips dry from the shouts. Your breaths come ragged, and nothing can distract from the sheer roaring _burn_ of your behind. The pain comes in waves, syncing with your pulse to form steady throbs.

He tugs your pants up, tapping your shoulder to signal you to stand which you do, but with great difficulty. The coarse brush of material against you skin is like salt on a wound, but you deal with it.

“You did very well” he praises “very well indeed, I didn’t have to start again _once_ ”. He passes you back your belt, observing quietly as you loop it around your hips again and tighten it “Are you ready to behave _properly_ now?”

“yes sir” you nod. It’s quiet, but justifiable.

“ _Good_ , then we’ll say no more about it” he turns back to the table, casting a hand over the lantern to blow it out.

You hesitate in the room as he moves to leave, prompting him to wave you forward to follow “come on, lets get you something to eat, I had Pearson keep back some stew for you”

Smiling, you follow him through the tired house. A few eyes track you but you pay them no mind, the promise of hot foot too tempting. And _oh_ it was worth it, Pearson’s meagre stew never so welcome on your tongue.

You scrape up the dregs with your spoon, stood on the front porch of Shady Belle with Hosea at your side. He’s whittling something now, and from the vague shape it looks to be the rough start of a bird.

Hoof beats in the distance have your heads snapping up, the familiar ghost white of The Count cantering to a stop at the hitching post, Dutch ambling through camp a minute or so later, the spring in his step a telltale sign that whatever he had been off doing, it had proven fruitful.

“ _Someone’s_ looking chipper” Hosea comments, slipping his knife into his belt again.

“With _good_ reason Hosea I assure you, _good_ reason” Dutch beams, even more pleased with himself than usual “Any trouble while I was gone?”

Those dark eyes move back and forth between you and Hosea, the silver haired man turning to you to prompt you to answer first.

“No sir”

Hosea laughs, pleased enough with the response before echoing it with his own.

“I agree, no trouble _at all_ ”


End file.
